Open Your Eyes

Summary: It's not that you never cared about him…your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU.

Setting: Season 6 (briefly) and after (but not Season 7—an atrocity I'm trying to forget.)

Disclaimer: Open Your Eyes belongs to Snow Patrol. Drive, as far as I know, is the work of Incubus (and a pretty great song in my opinion). The characters aren't mine, but it's nice to pretend.

A/N: So, it's been forever, I know. Longer than I intended but on the plus side, I think this baby is nearing its end. Maybe. Then again, maybe not. It won't be much longer at least. Possibly. Ok, forget I said that and just read the damn thing. :)

And, as always, review. (I'll throw a please in there so I don't seem so demanding)

Sometimes, I feel the fear of uncertainty stinging clear
And I can't help but ask myself how much I let the fear
Take the wheel and steer
It's driven me before
And it seems to have a vague, haunting mass appeal
But lately I'm beginning to find that I
Should be the one behind the wheel

So if I decide to waiver my chance to be one of the hive
Will I choose water over wine and hold my own and drive?

"Where ya headed?"

For just a moment, the question catches you off guard; you stare back at the man who asked, dazed, confused and a little disoriented.

You figure, it probably has something to do with the fact that you have no idea what the answer is. So far, where you're going hasn't been an important motivating factor—it's been more about what you're getting away from.

You figure, that's probably a big part of the problem.

The backseat of the cab is littered with trash, an empty coffee cup here, a Snickers wrapper there (you rest your hand against the seat, your palm narrowly avoiding nugget and marshmallow). It is a cornucopia of the discarded and unwanted remnants of life. You wonder, for a brief philosophical moment, what that makes you.

There is a place, a thought at the back of your mind hinting at where you would like to go, but a moment of hesitancy (and fear) keep you from saying it out loud, immediately. You're not sure, exactly, if where you want to be is a place where you would be welcome.

"Miss?" the tone of the cabdriver's voice is misleading, his voice patient and waiting while the expression on his face could not more clearly say "hurry the hell up" unless he utters the words himself.

You sigh, and resign yourself to simple fact that this is one of those "now or never" moments. (And never is not really an option- at least not for you.)

As you tell the driver your ideal destination, the look on his face transitions from disgruntled to skeptical, to sympathetic— all within the span of about three seconds. (The sympathy, you're assuming goes toward the lack of shoes on your feet, the hopeful look in your eyes, and the pitiable state of your dress.)

Still, you imagine he's tallying up the price of a ride like that just before he sighs a final and reluctant, "Get in."

You would hug him, but there's a bulletproof window between the driver and passenger's seats (which makes you more than eager to keep your distance.) Besides, you're not sure either one of you smells all that great right about now.

The cabdriver looks over his shoulder and the smile you give him is nothing short of grateful. "Thank you so much." He shrugs, like it's nothing. You figure, he has no idea what he's doing for you.

As the taxi creeps forward, you rest your head against the window, glancing back only once just to solidify the feeling that you are actually doing this, that this is what you prefer.

This is what you choose.

Several days after he proposes, you feel yourself begin to splinter. You are a spider-web of broken glass—the more steps you take (or the more steps someone takes on you) the further you splinter and crack (but you are not really given the option of breaking completely).

"—flowers?"

The floral delivery girl (her name tag reads Cheryl) is considerate enough to come to you personally, naïve enough to believe that you actually have any say in what's going on here. You guess, somehow still you have an air of importance about you. (Though you're not sure, exactly, how that is.)

"Over here."

You step to the side after being jostled, only slightly, by the delivery men. You watch, disconnected, as your life is rearranged around you (without your say, as if you're not even there) the steps to your future being meticulously checked off on a to-do list.

"You're sure these are the flowers you want?" Cheryl asks, searching for you to be the one to make a decision. You take a deep breath but just as you open your mouth, Andréa comes over, an air of purpose surrounding her.

"You don't have anything else in mind, do you?" There is something about her tone-the assuming, all knowing pitch in her voice- that puts you a little on edge (as if you aren't already there of your own accord).

You look down for a brief moment, and swear that you can hear the sound of glass cracking. "No, not really."

"Of course not. They're perfect, aren't they?" Andréa, the wedding planner, doesn't wait for a response. You realize you could have prattled out a curse in German and it wouldn't have mattered. In spite of all the pretenses, you are being painfully made aware that this isn't about what you want.

She moves onto the next item on the checklist and you are left behind with Eduard, the glorified handyman whose only purpose is to do the heavy lifting, and wish that "this" would be over sooner, rather than later.

It's raining.

You close your eyes, press your nose and forehead against the cool pane of the window and sigh. Your lips, you see reflected in the glass, are turned up in just the slightest hint of a smile. The rain started up almost as soon as you entered Philadelphia, a fact that you find, in some respect, gloriously liberating.

It's cold out when you step outside, and you've forgotten your jacket. You'd only intended on getting some fresh air; coming out here was not meant to be a prolonged experience.

You wrap your arms—bare, riddled with goose bumps, and shivering—around yourself and sigh. A lot of things are not as you intended.

You blink, the sharp air whipping your hair into your face and eyes. Suddenly you're sitting in your car behind the wheel, keys in the ignition and then, just as suddenly, you are leaving behind pre-wedding floral arrangements and practice table settings in a cloud of car exhaust and screeching tires.

Your body seems to be aware of wherever it is that you're headed towards, even if your mind doesn't have a clue. You are driving on auto-pilot, going off of faith and instinct (and you're thankful for that).

Time seems to slip through your fingers; before long, you find yourself in more than familiar territory, the ache to belong, to feel home, wrapping itself tightly around you as you pull to a stop in front of the sign that has eased many a fears. "Welcome to Stars Hollow."

You blink back tears you didn't realize you were holding as eager fingers create their own path along the engraved lettering, you feel your body heave another sigh as you realize: you miss it. You miss here.

And it hurts to miss this much.

You were expecting him to be here. You were expecting a torrent of questions, an argument, the always present question ("What are you doing here?") that seems to serve as a soundtrack for your relationship. You were expecting him to hate you for coming here. For all of that, you were prepared.

But not for this.

"I—"

Before you are entirely aware of what you're doing, before either of you can say a word or any coherent phrase, you are moving towards him (or he's moving toward you, really it's hard to tell the difference) and you're in his arms.

It feels better than you've remembered; the ease of which you fit into his arms feels slightly comparable to being home.